


Comfortable

by TigerMoon



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Biting, Body Worship, Friendship/Love, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Scars, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoon/pseuds/TigerMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why Spirit keeps coming back to him. Not the sex. Not the novelty, but this, the after.</p>
<p>Spirit, Shinigami, and the space between them as it melts into the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfortable

**Author's Note:**

> It has, admittedly, been a very long time since I've written porn. And I'm not sure this is up to par, but I made a promise, and I always keep my promises.
> 
> Also, more people need to be writing this pairing. This ship is tiny and lonely. D:

It's cold in the Nevada desert at night, cold enough that the people walking the streets puff out their breaths in little clouds of steam from behind the collars of their jackets – merry little puffs in the faded glow of streetlights. It almost looks inviting, from on high where he stands. Humanity is peaceful and calm and at harmony; Spirit Albarn doesn't have to be able to see souls to tell that.

 

There's a chill behind him, and cold arms cross over his shoulders to let huge cold hands drape over his bare chest. “See something interesting?” says a deep voice; Spirit glances at the reflection in the window and smiles softly. Shinigami is brave tonight, to stand naked in front of his bedroom window, no cloak nor mask to hide him – but then, Spirit is just as nude as he is, and he's in front of him, and they're both on the fourth floor of Gallows Manor. It's too high for anyone to see anything specific.

 

(The thrill of possibility is a nice touch, though.)

 

Spirit turns around in his meister's grasp and laces his hands around Shinigami's broad waist. “Just thinking.” The Reaper hums a bit and rests his head atop Spirit's own, content, as the younger man leans against him. “It's nice, y'know? Quiet. Don't get that too often around here.”

.

“No,” he agrees in a soft voice. “We don't.” The deathscythe sighs as a huge hand steals into his hair, caressing, and lets his hands slowly roll up the expanse of the other's rippled back. Shinigami flinches – he always does, at first – then relaxes.

 

No one escapes the Academy without scars, the Reaper once said. Every Weapon, every Meister, all have scars. Even Spirit has his own, a few jagged marks from battle, the clean surgical cuts of the scalpel, all scattered sparingly across his swimmer's build. But Shinigami – Shinigami is all muscle and strength that has been torn apart and glued back together, his body held together by vicious scars that speak more of torture than war. (Sometimes, rarely, Spirit asks about them. Sometimes, even more rarely, Shinigami answers him.)

 

(Always, Spirit marvels how someone created through so much pain can hold so much love.)

 

Tonight, though, there are no questions, just the gentle touch of fingers over tight muscles, coaxing the knots to unravel. The god's deep-set eyes half-close in contentment. A low rumble, akin to a purr, echoes from deep within his chest; Spirit can hear it, feel it, his head laying against the other's chest. “Good?” he asks.

 

“Mmm.” With a woman Spirit would be calculating each touch, teasing and withholding and measuring to drive out the responses he wants – the ecstasy they expect of him, the lethal Casanova. And he likes playing that part for them. Likes their curves and softness, the press of breasts against his chest and buttocks in his palms, the scent and taste of womanhood, the tightness and heat of their core – but that is as far as his attraction ever goes, with women.

 

(He likes to think that maybe, just maybe, Kami was the exception.)

 

Shinigami shifts a bit in his arms and it's suddenly made very obvious that he's not together with a woman but another man – and Spirit smiles to himself as one huge, calloused hand tilts his head up. With women it's all physical. With the Grim Reaper... oh, there's definitely physical attraction. There's something beyond, too, though, the want to come back again and again like a moth to the flame. No desire to seek out another man and compare the differences, but the need to keep exploring the depths of body and mind. The need to relax into a soul he understands. Spirit has to play the part of DeathScythe with the ladies, but here he is just Spirit Albarn, human being, flawed and overemotional and insecure.

 

He is flawed, and Shinigami accepts him exactly as he is – and just as importantly, he sees the human facets of the Reaper, the absurdity and the darkness and the quiet, long suffering, and Spirit accepts him, the flawed god.

 

Again Shinigami shifts and Spirit reaches up on tiptoe to kiss the side of his mouth, rubbing the side of his hip against the other's quite prominent arousal. “Didn't think I was that good,” he teases, and the older man huffs a laugh.

 

“Modesty? From you? Are you sure you're feeling all right?” But he's smiling as he says it, pulling Spirit flush against him and slowly, agonizingly, grinding their hips together. When Spirit rolls his eyes Shinigami laughs again and kisses him, a slow firm touch of lips that turns to another, and another, till lips part and the Reaper is stealing Spirit's breath away with a slow swipe of his tongue. “Mmm... you feel a bit feverish,” he murmurs when their lips part.

 

Spirit rakes his fingernails down the other's broad chest hard enough to leave welts on the ivory skin. “Quit being a tease.” Another kiss, and he reaches up again to bite the edge of one pointed earlobe. Shinigami shivers as that hot tongue traces over the lobe and down across his throat. “That's my job.”

 

The older man hums in agreement, pulling them backwards towards the king-sized bed on the other side of the room; they stumble and fall and Spirit ends up straddling Shinigami's lap, sitting face-to-face and cock-to-cock and when Shinigami lifts his hips up a bit they slide against each other in absolutely delicious ways.

 

Spirit clings to his shoulders, drawing in a ragged breath. “Shit.”

 

The Reaper draws in a sharp breath and buries his face in the juncture of Spirit's neck and shoulder. Another roll of the hips. Another. Spirit shivers as his lover bites his throat just hard enough to bruise. “God-”

 

“Yes~?” Shinigami draws his head back enough to look at him, eyes sparkling a merry warm copper, and he slides a hand down to barely brush over the head of Spirit's arousal. Spirit whines, head thrown back. “You called~?”

 

Spirit lays his hands against his chest again; skilled fingers find the sensitive spots on the chest, a dusky nipple, and brush against it before he ducks his head down.

 

(He has learned the sensitive places on his meister, the best ways to get even when the man is feeling a little too playful.)

 

His teeth close around the nub of flesh, hot tongue swirling around it, and the Reaper swears in languages long-dead as he pulls at cherry-red hair. “Spirit-”

 

Spirit bites. A cool burst of wetness hits his stomach – precum, clear and sticky, dripping from the other's sensitive head. Shinigami moans, shivers, pulls Spirit up and whispers in his ear, shaking, “May we... lay down for this?”

 

A nod. For all their rough-and-tumble play, Shinigami is gentle when he moves Spirit off his lap; the younger man lies back on the bed, arms and legs akimbo, and watches with fondness as his meister gets to his feet. Desire makes his eyes glow in the pale light of the room; Shinigami slowly climbs over him, pressing kisses to every exposed part of him as he climbs his way up.

 

A god, worshiping a human's body.

 

Nibbling kisses to his toes and the soles of his feet, up his legs. Longer, biting kisses along his thighs, leaving red marks high upon his thigh, the soft hair of his goatee tickling the skin there. Skipping over the root of him, the obvious arousal, to drag his tongue up the trail of scarlet hair that leads to his navel and ever further up. Dusky areola traced by tongue as well, nipples pinched and lightly suckled until he squirms before dragging his way up and kissing his lips, open-mouthed, hard enough to bruise. Spirit – sighing and moaning the entire way through – grasps his god by the hair and devours him, tongue against tongue.

 

Then Shinigami lays up against Spirit, and the younger man wails into his mouth.

 

It is divine, it is heaven, the slide of their cocks against each other, the feel of his meister's velvety hardness pressed up against his own heat. And slick – both of them have beaded up precum by now, crystal clear droplets sliding down their shafts and intermingling- a slickness that enhances the glide of skin on skin. Shinigami kisses him again as he presses his hips down and forward, and Spirit can do naught but cry out and thrust up to meet him.

 

“You are so beautiful,” Shinigami murmurs, sliding a hand down between them, “oh Spirit, you don't know-”

 

His huge hand, rough with callouses, encircles both their lengths. Spirit thrusts into the tightness, thrusts in time with his meister's rhythm, even as his lower belly coils tight, so tight-

 

“Come for me,” Shinigami breathes, and Spirit uncoils with a voiceless cry to spill hot and white over his hand. A few more thrusts, and a cooler, thicker fluid joins it, his meister's eyes shining bright and his body taut, shaking as pleasure overwhelms him.

 

Shinigami collapses half atop him. Their hands intertwine as they lay there, panting, basking in the afterglow; the older man sighs after a few moments and pulls Spirit to him, kisses his brow, holds him tight.

 

“What's gonna be for breakfast?” Spirit asks after a few sleepy moments.

 

A chuckle answers him, soft laughter and another gentle kiss.

 

This is why Spirit keeps coming back to him. Not the sex. Not the novelty, but this, the after, the holding of hands and the gentle kisses, the knowledge he is loved. Shinigami doesn't have to answer with words; he knows he is loved by the feel of his hands, the touch of his lips, the way his souls wraps around him.

 

From the way Shinigami smiles as Spirit curls into him, the relaxing of his soul... Spirit thinks he knows he loves him too.

 

 


End file.
